


Reaching Detente

by KylieL



Series: Life After [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylieL/pseuds/KylieL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of encounters in Gotham between two heroes who work in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> This is primarily an Angel/Batman Begins story, however it also contains a bit of a Supernatural cross and a blink-and-you'll-miss it cross with Smallville/Charmed/MASH/Iron Man (Movieverse) - Pre movie. My mind is a very scary place sometimes.

### The First Time

**_The first time he saw her, she killed a man._ **

He's about to step in on what is, for Gotham, a rather routine assault/mugging, when suddenly the victim takes control of the situation. In an instant her body language changes from terrified, weak and cowering, to sleekly controlled aggression. She knocks her attacker back and, in a fluid movement, thrusts something at him. Her attacker - a low level mob flunky - promptly explodes into dust. 

Bruce is more than a little startled, freezing in shock for the few moments it takes her to pick up the mans wallet. The shock dissapates as she flips the wallet open, checks the contents, and sighs. He moves to intercept her before she can leave as she slides the wallet into her purse. Turning she steps forward and runs into him, her flush against his for a brief moment.

"You do this often?" he growls as menacingly as he can. She steps back reflexively, her eyes widening. She recovers quickly, however, and he can't help but be impressed at her control. Stronger people than her quake at the sight of him. Her chin lifts slightly and her shoulders drop. He can tell it isn't stupidity, or bravado -- her eyes are far too intelligent for her to be using arrogance as a shield against him.

The corner of her lips quirk before she returns his growl with a light, "Get attacked? Or stake a vampire?"

"Vampire?" His brows rose in surprise.

"Vampire," she nods. "You know, doesn't like the sunlight, strong, scary. Rather like you, only un-dead and with fangs."

He doesn't appreciate her attempt at humour. He examines the weapon she still holds in her right hand - a wooden stake. "Is this a joke?"

"Do you see a body?" she snaps, all humour gone. "All this time living in the night hours, and you're telling me you've never run across a vampire?" Her tone is incredulous, and the look on her face screams disbelief.

There had been a few instances over the last few months where the criminal he was dealing with had been...off. One has just smirked and taken a header of a ten storey building -- they hadn't been able to find the body.

"Don't worry about it Bats," she says, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet, "I don't expect you to add vampire slaying to your list of duties." As she turns she adds, "That's what I'm here for." 

"In my city," he calls after her as she walks away.

"My city too, now," he hears as she disappears into the night.

******

**_The first time she saw him, he frightened the crap out of her._ **

She has just dusted a vampire that had delusions of competence. It's night in Gotham city - and the place is really creeping her out. 

She has been to many cities in the last few years, New York being her favourite, but Gotham is the only city that truly creeps her out at night. And daytime isn't exactly easy on her nerves either - she is too aware of what is hiding in Gotham's shadows.

She checks the ID in the wallet that the vamp dropped. Great, the picture doesn't match the vamp. Now she is going to have to chase down the actual owner of the wallet to see if he'd been turned. Just great.

She turns to leave the alleyway, and runs into the only nightlife completely unique to Gotham.

Crap. And here she was thinking he was an urban legend.

"Do this often?" he growls at her. Actually growls. She'd be impressed but after so many years with Angel... A quick glance is enough to tell her that, oh wonderful, he's pissed because she's on his turf. Just what she wants to deal with -- a territorial, vigilante, nut job. The man is dressed as a bat for crying out loud!

She suppresses a smirk at the thought before replying, "Get attacked? Or stake a vampire?"

"Vampire?" 

She can just make out that he's surprised by her response. "Vampire," she confirms, nodding. "You know, doesn't like the sunlight, strong, scary. Rather like you, only un-dead and with fangs."

Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to appreciate her humour, she notes as he eyes her warily.

"Is this a joke?" he demands.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he's the joke in that get up, but she's seen weirder, and doesn't really have the energy to verbally spar with him. Something in his tone - hard to make out with his voice disguised the way it is - also tells her that he's genuinely clueless.

"Do you see a body?" All humour is gone, replaced by disbelief. "All this time living in the night hours, and you're telling me you've never run across a vampire?" How the hell was that possible? From what she'd seen of Gotham's vampire population so far, they weren't that smart.

Well, she doesn't have time to initiate a newbie, and as long as he knows about vamps, he is capable of taking care of himself. "Don't worry about it Bats," she says, shifting her weight, ready to make a quick exit in case he got shirty over the nickname, "I don't expect you to add vampire slaying to your list of duties." He frowns at the thought, and she can practically see the wheels turning in those intelligent eyes. Oh, no... "That's what I'm here for," she adds, hoping it will be enough to get him to back off and let her do her job, without interference.

"In my city," he calls after her as she walked away.

Damn. He is too territorial, he'll interfere where he sees fit, rather like Angel. Bugger. She can tell she's going to have to save his ass at some point in the future.

"My city too, now," she calls back to him, and keeps walking.

*****


	2. Second Sight

### Second Sight

_**The second time he saw her, he had to look twice to be sure it's her.** _

There's no streetlight to break up the darkness tonight, just bright sparkling chandelier light and the babel of champagne fueled inane conversation.

She is all simple elegance, from the effortlessly perfect posture, to the simple chignon that sweeps her hair up. Tonight he is Gotham's playboy, his date for the night a blond socialite whose name he has trouble remembering. Behind his facade he watches her as she mingles, effortlessly sliding from person to person, never letting herself get caught in one spot long enough to answer anything but the most inane questions.

She's getting a drink from the bar when he makes his move, curious to see if she is as mysterious in this elegant socialite guise as she was in her warrior one. 

"Allow me," he murmurs, as he hands the bartender money for her drink, and orders a scotch.

She looks at him in surprise and then her eyes narrow. "Thank you, but I can buy my own drinks."

It's not a reaction he's used to; he instinctively recognises it as a determination not to owe anyone anything. She reacts more like Rachel would, rather than most of the women of his acquaintance -- who would mainly giggle, or blush, or both -- and he finds that he appreciates her prickliness more than the usual coy flirting. "I'm sure you can," he returns, "but as this shindig is for charity, you would be doing me a favour by allowing me to pay." His scotch arrives and he takes a sip. Leaning into her he speaks in a stage whisper, "The more I spend now, the more I can deduct in April." 

He is impressed when she doesn't pull back at his invasion of her personal space. Humour sparks in her eyes. "Ah, so I'm contributing to the continued solvency of Gotham's billionaire?" She raises a brow as he hums assent. "Good to know."

He flirts a little, wanting to see how she reacts. "If you insist on payment though, I'd accept your name."

He doesn't anticipate the warmth in her eyes instantly disappearing and her face blanking, like a shield has snapped into place, hiding her reactions. She downs her drink in one gulp. Her smile is brilliant -- too brilliant -- as she places the glass on the bar. "You'll have to settle for me contributing to your solvency." Before he can respond, she uses the crowded bar to her advantage and disappears into the crowd of the party.

*****

_**The second time she saw him, he bought her a drink.** _

It's a fund-raiser for some cause or another, and she is gate crashing. If her ideas for the business are going to work, she needs to be able to get information, and clients, from all levels of society. So tonight she is making herself known to Gotham society, getting a feel for the people, her social graces a mask as her mind works furiously behind it.

She doesn't let herself get tied to one spot long enough for anyone to question why she may have been invited -- her simple black sheath is hardly the height of fashion.

After an hour of inane chit-chat while sipping water, she decides that she's earned the drink she's been craving since five minutes after she arrived. She has found tonight that she isn't as comfortable in this setting as she had once been.

She is about to pay for her martini, when an arm reaches over and a deep voice murmurs, "Allow me."

She's surprised. There is no slur to his speech, so he's not already drunk, which makes a change from the last five men who have hit on her. She turns to thank him, and her eyes narrow.

She knows those far too intelligent eyes and the shape of that mouth, despite the gloom in which they had last met. 

Instantly her spine stiffens. She's not about to owe him anything, he already has the hometown advantage, so to speak. "Thank you, but I can buy my own drinks."

Admiration lights in his eyes. He parries smoothly, with some nonsense about it being a tax write off, and she sees a read-head shooting her envious glances out the corner of her eye and it finally registers that -- Holy Crap, he's Bruce Wayne. 

That Gotham's favourite son dresses as a bat at night to fight crime is a little surreal. She tries to picture any of the other millionaires she knows stepping into a fight of any kind in such a personal manner, only to end up going to a scary visual place involving David Nabbitt geeking out about the batsuit. 

Amused despite herself, she replies, "Ah, so I'm contributing to the continued solvency of Gotham's billionaire?" He hums his assent. "Good to know."

It's when he starts to flirt with her, asking her name, that she's brought back down to reality. 

He's Batman. The man who is going to be a major pain in her ass. 

And he's Bruce Wayne -- playboy billionaire -- who has a date to this shindig. And she is no longer a girl who can take such fickleness lightly.

This is trouble on both fronts -- especially when he will use either persona to get information from her.

She gulps down her drink, and places the glass carefully on the bar. "You'll have to settle for me contributing to your solvency," she tells him, flashing him a brilliantly fake smile, before making use of the crowded bar to escape.

She may have a grudging respect for Batman, but the playboy Bruce Wayne just pisses her off. 

*****


	3. Third Times a Charm

### Third Times a Charm

**_The third time he saw her, she was arguing with a pale, blond man._ **

It's 2am in the Narrows, the night and the shadows intermittently broken by the amber glow of street lights. 

"Don't be a complete ass, Spike." Her tone indicates that she is frustrated but not angry, and he is intrigued by odd sense of animation that he senses in her. She seems somehow more alive than during their previous encounters.

"You need help." The accent is English, London that has never heard of the BBC, and Bruce can tell that this point has been brought up before.

"Isn't that why you're here?" The rejoinder has an automatic quality to it -- obviously an ongoing argument.

"If you let me tell them, we could put you on the books proper."

"No."

"It'd mean more money."

"No."

"Health benefits," the blond - Spike - cajoles.

"I have health benefits. No."

"Dental."

"No."

"Access to all those musty tomes of knowledge and Watcher-yness."

"That's not a word," she retorted. "Besides, I have a copy of the DDD database, and my own sources. No."

"You're one to talk, the way you mangle the language," the man shot back. "What about backup?"

"Bite me," she said, almost challenging. "Interference you mean. No."

"Love to, love, but I don't do that anymore." Spike pauses, breaking the flow of the rapid dual argument. He seems hesitant for a moment and lights a cigarette. "Diplomatic Immunity."

She pauses. Judging from what Bruce could see of her face that last offer has come as a surprise. "Really? How the hell did they manage that?"

Spike draws on the cigarette. He exhales, smoke streaming from his mouth. "After the Initiative... well lets just say that your government wanted extra backup in the event they screwed things up again, and the Watcher played hard ball."

"Way to go Giles," she sounds impressed. "But the answer is still no."

"For the love of..!" There is a muttered curse that Bruce can't quite make out, but the tone speaks volumes. "Why?"

"They can't keep their mouths shut, Spike." Her tone indicates that she thinks it obvious.

"Bloody hell, if this is about the poof, then get over i-"

"It's not about Angel," she says, cutting him off. Spike glares at her. She shrugs. "It's not just about Angel." She leans against a dumpster, seeming strangely diminished. "I made a deal Spike. I keep my word."

"Your word," there is sarcasm in the emphasis, "is going to get you killed. You can't do this alone."

"Again, isn't that why you're here?"

Spike sighs, exhaling cigarette smoke again. "Yeah, but I'm only here for this." He waves vaguely at their surroundings. "You need a more permanent backup solution."

"I'm working on it," she sighs, the frustration leeching from her voice, exhaustion replacing it.

"Really?" Suspicion laces the hard accent.

"Really."

"Care to share?"

"Not yet." At Spike's low growl she shoots him an annoyed glare. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I'll tell you once I know if it's going to work or not. I'm just not in the mood for a round of I-told-you-so's if it doesn't."

They stand there glaring at each other until the blond looks away and changes the subject. "How good is your information about this guy? He's 20 minutes late."

"It's good, he'll be here."

The blond puffs quietly on his cigarette for a couple of minutes before dropping the butt to the cobbled pavement and grinding the remains under his boot. "Whatever it is you're doing, love, do it fast, or I'm going to have no choice but to spill the beans."

"Don't threaten me, Spike," she growls.

"I'm not, but they're tightening the accounting processes, and I can't take so much out of the discretionary funds without answering some very pointed questions. If it comes down to telling them, or you and yours on the street, you know what I'll choose. We've had that argument before."

She is quiet for a moment. "Thanks for the warning."

Spike shrugs, "Welcome, love." He perks up, "Oh, here we go. Action time."

The sound of running footfalls echoes through the night, but the rhythm is wrong, a 1-2-3, rather than a 1-2, 1-2. A very large... thing...demon...lumbers around the corner, screeching to a halt when he sees the blond figure in the middle of the street.

"Vampyr." The voice is as tortured and twisted as the figure, sounding flattened and awkward. It also sounds like it came from low in the throat, like the speaker eats gravel.

"Some-one's been a naughty boy," the English accent sing-songs as a feral grin crosses Spike's face.

"'M not 'fraid you!" The defiance bellows into the night, bouncing off of the tall buildings. The larger figure swings at the smaller. 

The wiry blond doesn't flinch, just reaches out and catches the swinging fist mid swing. "You shouldn't have done that," he advises savagely, then punches the demon in the stomach. The demon barely flinches.

"Hello Marvin." The woman had slipped behind the lumbering figure during the abortive confrontation. Her greeting is clear and crisp. It is difficult to tell in this light, but the figure... Marvin... appears to pale. Marvin turns to face her slowly. "We had a deal," she is growling now, vibrating with fury. "You don't kill innocents, and I don't kill you."

"I... I... no kill..." Marvin stammers out as the blond man grabs a hold of his arms, pulling them behind his back. There is a glint of steel as she steps into Marvin's personal space. Marvin grunts and tries to pull away from her, "No..."

"Lisa Gratesvski." 

Bruce freezes at the name. Lisa Gratesvski is a 9 year-old girl found mutilated two blocks from her elementary school this morning. Scuttle-but had it that the culprit was hiding in the Narrows. 

The woman steps forward, into a pool of light that lets him see her clearly. The metal he'd seen earlier turned into a 2 1/2 foot steel bladed katana that is still partially embedded in Marvin's stomach. Alfred's contacts have made him more aware of mystical than he ever wanted to be, but still his blood ran cold -- this was the second time he had seen her kill a ... demon. 

"Don't lie to me Marvin," she hisses, "I've seen it in technicolour. You are very distinctive." She pushes the blade forward, twisting.

Marvin gurgles what Bruce supposes is blood, and chokes out a vitriolic warning. "Your... time at... end. He... he coming." She raises a questioning brow. "You...dead. Azazel." 

She pulls the sword from Marvin as he falls, dead.

"Well, that was anticlimactic." Spike says sourly, throwing a dirty look at the corpse. "Azazel?" he muses worriedly, eyeing the corpse. "I've heard of him. Nasty bugger, best avoided. Very big on possession."

"Marvin's information is a little out of date," she informs him tiredly, sheathing the sword down the center of her back. Bruce assumes she has a scabbard under her clothes. "Azazel's been dead for just under a year."

"Dead?" Spike is obviously surprised by the news. "How'd we miss that? Who got the bugger?"

"Let me put it this way, never piss off a Winchester. They fixate, are persistent as all hell, and there are more than one of them -- they'll hunt you until they're all in their graves." Her head tilts consideringly, then she adds, "And maybe even after that."

"Sounds par for the course for the Winchesters."

She studies the corpse at her feet, then moves to fiddle with something next to the dumpster. When she returns to body she is holding a hacksaw and a machete. "Blade or saw?"

"How about both, and you go home? I haven't been a great help so far, I'll take care of disposal."

"It's not the first time I've had to dismember a demon's corpse, Spike."

"No, but you've had a long day. Go home and spend some time with your ducklings, I'll take care of this."

"Spike?" she asks, tilting her head, "Are you being voluntarily nice?"

"Consider it an early Christmas present, love," Spike replied, smirking. "I'm being sent to Prague for a few months, so I won't be around to perform my normal drunken serenade on Christmas morning."

"Another Christmas tradition abandoned," she mutters dryly, then hesitates. "Spike, are you sure?"

"Yes, love, go home."

"I meant about Prague. If it's going to be too... difficult..."

"It's in the past. I'll survive," he tells her shortly. "But your concern is duly noted."

Her tone is determinedly lighter as she repeats his words back to him. "Consider it an an early Christmas present. You're not going to be around for the Christmas morning drunken serenade, after all."

"Ah, so instead of lobbing pillows at me, you're showing concern?"

"Well, you're being nice."

"Point taken." Spike holds out a hand. "Now give me those and go home."

"Spike?" she leans over the corpse and kisses the blond on the cheek. "Come visit once you're done in Prague?"

He nods, "Thanks, love."

She smiles a little uncertainly and walked away. Spike waits a few minutes, not moving, and Bruce is about to leave himself, feeling so very much like a voyeur, when Spike turns and looks straight at him. "Seen enough for one night?"

Instead of slipping back into the shadows, Bruce cautiously approaches the blond, a moving shadow. "It was certainly...interesting," he allows.

Spike lights another cigarette, and draws back on it as they consider each other. "So, you're the batman. And here I thought you were an urban myth." Bruce looks pointedly at the corpse sprawled out between the two of them. "Fair point," Spike says, and shrugs. He crouches down and begins to saw an arm off. "So, are you going to be a problem?"

It is obvious that the blond didn't consider Batman to be a threat to him personally, and Bruce feels his ego twinge a little. He briefly wonders exactly what would happen to him if he is going to be a problem. "Lisa Gratesvski?" he asks instead, rather than answer immediately.

"Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Glow Brite's rarely wrong about these things. She won't go off half cocked just for the hell of it." The fact that the police were hardly equipped to deal with demons went unsaid.

He thinks about that while watching Spike start on a leg. "No problem from me."

Spike just nods and continues dismembering Marvin. As Bruce turns to leave, a question stops him. "If you see her doing this alone, can you..." the question trails off as if it's asker isn't sure what to ask. 

Bruce understands anyway. "I'll do what I can." 

As if he isn't going to anyway.

*****

**_The third time she saw him, he was in the paper._ **

At least Batman is.

A Gotham Gazette reporter has finally gotten lucky, and managed to get a picture. Not that it's a particularly good one, it doesn't show his face, fortunately for him. Even so, she amuses herself with wondering just how many kittens he had when he saw it, while she listens to Dean and Jo fight.

Sometimes -- many times in the last 5 minutes -- she wonders about the wisdom in inviting the Winchester brothers to Gotham. Especially when Jo was also staying with her at the moment.

She had met the brothers in Salem, Oregon. The Winchesters had been hunting what they had thought was a demon, but in fact turned out to be a slayer. While she had been tracking said slayer, for Spike -- He had refused to go anywhere near the place, and had called in a favour. So she had tracked down the girl to give her the whole 'One-Girl-in-All-the-World-Slayers-Vampires-Watchers-Demons' spiel -- without the one girl part and with an offer of training and help from the IWC -- only to find her while Dean had a shotgun pointed at her.

She had managed to get both parties to listen to her long enough to avoid bloodshed -- and how sad was it the she was being diplomatic? Even if it was her own brand of diplomatic?

Fortunately, Dean isn't stupid, despite the act he uses occasionally, and he and Sam had actually helped with a few vamps when the mini-Slayer -- Larrissa -- had needed proof that the people after her weren't whack jobs. After getting Larrissa safely on a plane for Cleveland, she had travelled with Sam and Dean for a couple of weeks, until she had been just about ready to kill them. 

She couldn't handle the constant angst. Brooding? Not a problem -- let 'em brood a little, then snark at 'em until they were over it. It was the constant emo crap the pissed her off.

Still, she respected them enormously -- they were brilliant hunters -- and they'd helped her out with a little legal problem she'd been having. So she had refrained from trying out her new pistol skills on living targets and instead had them drop her off in New York.

She'd met Jo three weeks later, after seeing the girl take out a spirit that was carving up children in an apartment building in Brooklyn. Jo had been new to the city, so she had taken the girl back to her studio and patched up the injuries.

She'd only discovered that Jo and the Winchesters know each other when Sam and Dean had turned up on her doorstep, Sam's wrist in a cast. 

She glances in envy at the photo of Batman scaling a fire escape in pursuit of the the Joker. All he had to worry about was an insane clown intent on holding the city hostage. She had to deal with demons, vampires, starting a business -- and all it's attendant paperwork -- a lack of money and Dean and Jo snarking at each other. 

Jo is seated behind a desk, Dean fills the front doorway and Sam massages his temples and tries to stay out of the line of fire on the sofa in her office.

"Enough!" she yells, just to put an end to the sniping. "I wouldn't have invited any of you if I knew you would turn into 6 year olds!"

Dean looks affronted at the insult. "Look, sweetheart -"

"Don't patronise me, Dean," she advises testily. "Now, are you two going to be civil, like the adults you're supposed to be, or do I have to kick your asses?"

Dean and Jo both mumble what she assumes is an agreement to play nice for the duration, and she turns to Sam, who looks somewhat amused at her wrangling of his brother. She knows it won't last long, the only reason Dean acquiesced is because he's just driven 500 miles and is tired. "So," she asks, indicating to Sam's cast, "What happened?"

"Poltergeist," he answers shortly, refusing to say any more. 

"Thought we might take you up on your offer of a place to crash for a while," Dean tells her.

She decides no to push, they'll tell her when they're ready. "Sure. Third floor, take your pick," she directs them, and Dean hauls a couple of duffels up the stairs, Sam following behind. 

Jo huffs, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. "They are going to be such a big pain in my ass, your realize."

"You'll survive."

"Well, yeah. But you know, it's the Winchesters. You do realize that trouble follows them, right?"

"Look who's talking."

"Oh, I'm an amateur compared to Sam and Dean," Jo assures her.

"Strangely enough, I think we can handle it."

"Famous last words. You wanna call your friend, just in case?"

"Jo," she warns. Jo knows she doesn't like to bother Spike unless it's important.

"I hate to point this out, but at the moment Sam's not up for a physical fight. I'm not too caught up in myself not to have noticed that Dean's out too, until he can get some serious sack time. And needless to say," Jo says, indicating to the cast on her own ankle, "I'm not exactly up for the hundred yard dash."

"Well, I could call Spike, and have him fly in from wherever the hell he is, but then you'd have to help me keep Sam and Dean from killing him."

"Ah. Yes." That's enough to give Jo pause. Apparently she has also experience the impossibility of turning a Winchester from their chosen course. "Let's wait until Dean's woken up before you go out on patrol."

"That's what I thought."

They turn their attention back to the paperwork piled on the desk. After the second cup of lukewarm coffee, she sighs. It's not like she planned to be running a convalescence home for wounded hunters or anything, it's just at this early stage, it's what the business has turned into. The blizzard of paperwork is Bureaucracy at it's worst. Medical insurance forms, applications, business registration documents, tax forms, licencing forms -- all wanting to know the minutiae of her life it seems. And she has to be very careful about what she discloses, or she could very well end up in jail for fraud.

This is much worse than when she had to do this in California. 

"This is ridiculous," Jo verbalises her frustration.

"Tell me about it," she sighs. Apparently it's not official until it's in triplicate.

"You know," Jo begins thoughtfully, "I think I know someone who can make this a little easier." She digs through her purse for the number. "I met him when I commandered his car, on a job in LA. He was pretty good about me totalling it."

It's while Jo is on the phone that the vision hits, scenes of terror and blood that send her dashing for the bathroom to empty her contents of her stomach.

Oh. God.

After the nausea subsides, fury replaces it.

Marvin.

They had a deal, dammit.

Because she hadn't been able to find out much about his species and hadn't wanted to jump straight to the assumption that he was evil, she had given him the benefit of the doubt, and a 9 year old girl had paid for the miss-judgement. 

One more sin she has to atone for.

She thinks quickly. Jo and Sam wouldn't be any good with this in their current states, and Dean, well Dean obviously needed some down time. Besides this wasn't their mess to clean up. It was hers. Of course that doesn't mean she is stupid enough to go up against a 6''5 demon alone.

It's time to call Spike.

As she treks back to the office, to make the call, she catches a glimpse of that photo in the paper. 

He's got it sooo easy.

*****


	4. Four and Five (or Four)

### Four & Five (or Four)

**_The fourth time he saw her, he finally learned her name._ **

It's another fundraiser - the Police & Fireman's Widows and Pensioners fund. He's come stag tonight, and she's on the arm of David Nabbitt, who he knows only by reputation. They make an odd couple, the awkward tech-head with an occasionally shaky grasp on reality, and the socially assured beauty. 

Lucius introduces them, "Bruce, I'd like you to meed David Nabbitt and Cordelia Doyle. David, Cordelia, meet Bruce Wayne." He shakes hands with Nabbitt - the man's handshake is a little weak - then turns to greet Cordelia.

Who meets his gaze coolly. "We've actually already met." Her eyes indicate that she is displeased with him, but the polite smile on her face remains. "Good to see you again, Mr Wayne." It's polite fiction, and he leaves it alone as he's drawn into a discussion about business matters with Lucius and Nabbitt.

He can't help but be impressed by the way she seems to blend into the background of the party without even moving, drawing as little attention to herself as possible. Anyone watching her would think that she was interested, if not taking part, in the discussion. He, however, can tell that she is bored. He has also noticed her surreptitiously scan the room, and had the distinct impression that she has the measure of all of its occupants. Interesting. At a lull in the discussion he attempts to include her in the conversation by asking what she does for a living. A part of him is curious to know if she will give a innocuous description to her nighttime activities.

"I run a Private Investigation firm," her answer is smooth. Either she's practiced it, or she really does. 

He raises a brow. "Unusual occupation."

"Compared to what?" she returns, subtly challenging him. He responds with a glib remark, and a pinched look crosses her face. She doesn't reply, and he notices that the knuckles on the hand holding her champagne glass have gone white. "Excuse me gentlemen, but I need to find the ladies."

"Cordelia?" Nabbitt's attention sharpens on her. 

She smiles reassuringly at him. "I'll be back in a moment." As she excuses herself Bruce notices that Nabbitt's eyes follow her, worried.

She is going in the wrong direction for the toilets.

*****

**_The fifth time he saw her (although it could be counted as an addendum to the fourth -- how he counted depended on his mood) she had her head between her knees._ **

He is seeking some fresh air and a few moments where he doesn't have to be Gotham's billionaire playboy. It has been less than half an hour since her escape from the ballroom. Nabbitt and Lucius are deep in a rather technical discussion that had left Bruce feeling rather superfluous, so he has escaped to the terrace.

Her cell rings and she answers on the first ring. "Please tell me you got there in time." There is a brief pause, and her shoulders slump. "Is every one ok?" Another pause while the person on the other end answers. "Ok, I'll be home soon." She flips her phone closed and massages her temples.

"Headache?" he asks, making himself known. She startles, then throws a glance over her shoulder. He follows her gaze and notes that from her position she can see most of the ballroom without being seen herself. 

"You left David a-"

He cuts off the question to reassure her, "With Lucius. They were discussing something about modules and classes when my eyes glazed over and I needed air."

"Have you seen Luthor lurking around?" she asks abruptly.

"Elder or Junior?"

"Either."

"They left about 15 minutes ago in high dudgeon with each other. Why?" He isn't sure he likes the idea of her looking for either Luthor. There is something rather disturbing about both men. "Did you need something?" 

"Yeah," she mutters, "them to stay away from David."

So he isn't the only one who has concerns about the Luthors, she has good instincts. "Well, Nabbitt is perfectly safe for the moment, and you should be able to retrieve him from Lucius easily enough." Lucius, as tech savvy as he is, doesn't fixate the way that true tech-heads did. "You should probably be glad that Tony Stark isn't here. Between the two of them, they'd probably get so involved in their technical discussion that a bomb couldn't separate them."

Cordelia makes what sounds suspiciously like a snort. "You don't need a bomb. Tony Stark is easy enough to distract." He notes that she doesn't mention attempting to distract Nabbitt, which he finds telling. "After that getting David out of here wouldn't be a problem."

"Sounds like the voice of experience," he comments, ignoring the unsettled feeling that settles in his stomach when he thinks about what that experience may be.

She hums non-commitally, and stands, swaying on her feet. He catches her before she topples. 

"O-K. A little dizzy," she moans, sitting back down and putting her head back between her knees.

"Do you need a doctor?" he asks, concerned at her pallor.

She shakes her head, and waves a hand at him. "No, it's just...migraine."

He doesn't buy it, it is too sudden, and it doesn't quite fit. Nabbitt was worried, and she is watching over him like a tigress with it's cub. There is something else going on.

He leaves her a moment and flags down a waiter for some water. When he returns she is sitting vertical again, still breathing slowly and deeply. She has a little more colour in her face, which is good. He holds out the glass and she takes it with a murmured thanks.

"You're welcome." He waits until she has taken a few cautious sips, before sitting on the bench beside her. "So, do you need anything?"

"No, just...give me a minute." They sit in silence for a few minutes, as more colour returns to her face. "So," she asks, looking at him curiously, "who are you hiding from?"

Obviously she is feeling a little better. He debates for a moment on how to answer the question, before settling on honesty. "Everyone."

Something flickers in her eyes, but her shields don't go up. "Well, you can't hide behind my skirts -- there's no room." Dry humour laces her tone.

He reads the implication and his tone matches hers; "And here I thought you protected people from the vultures."

"Yes, but you need protection from a different animal."

"Harpies?"

Her mouth quirks in silent agreement. "Can't help you there. Besides, you're a big boy, I would have thought you'd be able to manage them on your own by now."

"A certain level of backup has proved necessary on several occasions," he finds himself admitting.

She chokes back laughter. "I think I would like to see that one day."

"Well, if you're staying in Gotham, you probably will eventually." She is too sharp to miss Alfred stepping in to have him take and imaginary phone call. "Or you could step in yourself, if you felt like putting me in your debt."

"Aren't you already in my debt?" she asks, a mischievous light in her eyes. "I contributed to your continued solvency, after all."

He smiles briefly. "Maybe just a little," he agrees, unexpectedly pleased that she remembers.

They fall into a companionable silence as she finishes her water.

Suddenly she stands, swaying slightly before stabilising. "If you'll excuse me..." she mutters as she makes a dash for the ballroom. 

His gaze follows her as she navigates through crowded room, until he sees the reason for her abrupt departure. David Nabbitt appears to be at the mercy of one of Gotham's more...persistent social climbers. Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he winds his way through the crowd and positions himself at a discrete distance away from the beleaguered Nabbitt. He is close enough to hear what is said, and he finds himself anticipating the confrontation.

The blonde is batting her eyes at a flustered Nabbitt, who looks ready to bolt.

"There you are, David." Cordelia has circled around and now moves smoothly beside him and links her arm through his. "I've been looking everywhere for you." The look of relief on David's face is so obvious that Bruce has to choke down laughter. Cordelia then deigns to notice Lucia. "Oh, hello. And who might you be?" He can't help but admire the way the cool enquiry makes the blonde take an involuntary step back.

Quickly masking her outrage, Lucia flashes a coy smile at David before replying, "Lucia Winthrop."

"Lucia? Like, Borgia?" Cordelia asks, all innocence.

"That Lucrezia." Annoyance doesn't suit the blonde. "I'm Lucia."

"Oh." One word and Cordelia has effectively dismissed Lucia. Turning to David, she puts herself directly between him and the harpy. "Sam called," she states conversationally.

Nabbitt's face freezes and his eyes widen. "Are you ok?" It is an odd question, and only confirms to Bruce that something else was going on. "Is he ok?"

"Yes, but you shouldn't leave him in charge," Cordelia says, and Bruce gets the sense that the words mean something else. "You know how much trouble he and Jo can get into."

Nabbitt swears under his breath, and begins guiding her to towards the foyer, leaving an outraged blonde behind. "Please tell me she didn't blow up my car this time."

"It was once, David," her tone rises with exasperation, "Will you get over it already?"

"I liked that car!"

"Then you shouldn't have lent it to Jo!" 

"I didn't l-" Bruce can't hear the rest of the exchange, as they make their way out of the ballroom, but he is fairly confident that it will probably continue until they get to the car. He can't help feeling that the entertainment value alone would be worth it, if Cordelia ever did decide to put him more firmly in her debt. 

And, she had been wrong -- she could help with harpies.

******

**_The fourth time she saw him, it's in the flesh, and they're actually introduced._ **

Jo's help turned out to be David Nabbitt, which had been one heck of a surprise. 

David had turned up yesterday morning with an overnight bag, three computers, and the deed to her building. He'd automated most of the paperwork with a program and submitted the majority of forms online. 

Then he'd signed on as a silent partner over her objections.

Obviously he's been too long in LA and has been taking arrogance lessons from Tony Stark. 

Well, no, not really. That's just her being a bitch. 

David may not be quite as awkward as she remembers, but she still gets uber-geek vibes from him, and he's still sweetly -- but dorkily -- earnest.

"I don't get to help with this often - not since you guys," referring to the AI crew, "moved to the old Hyperion. I mean, let's face it, I can't go out there like you can to battle the forces of darkness-" 

Cordelia had been forced to choke back a gag at the cheesy-ness of the phrase.

"-but money I can help with. Computers I can help with. Software I can definitely help with."

Cordelia was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. If it had just been her she had to worry about, she would have refused, but it wasn't. It was making this work, for Sam and Dean and Jo, and all the hunters that she had encountered in the last few years, the ones that weren't slayers, and therefore under the aegis of the IWC.

She had given in, thanked him, and they'd spent today going over what it would take to set up satellite offices, and organise medical insurance for people who, in some cases, didn't have legal identities that could be used without getting them arrested. 

Tonight, David has been invited to a fund-raiser, and the only reason he agreed to attend is because he wants to meet Lucius Fox. She's is here because she remembers what he was like at parties. Unless he's improved dramatically in the last few years, he's going to need a bit of help if he wants to survive without the Gotham socialites ripping into him once the night is over.

So, at least she has an invitation this time...sort of.

They are introduced to Mr Fox not long after arriving. Her impression of him is of gravitas. A quiet, solid competence, hiding a brilliant mind. She doesn't get the uber geek vibe from him, thankfully, which means that it will be that much easier to extract David when it's time to leave. 

Mr Fox introduces them to Bruce Wayne -- and why on earth is she surprised? She knew Fox was Wayne Enterprises Chairman of the Board -- who is in his playboy guise again tonight, although she hasn't picked up gossip of a date with him this time. Never the less, she finds herself irritated by him once he's shaken David's hand and turns to greet her.

"We've actually already met," she says coolly. "Good to see you again, Mr Wayne." She's lying through her teeth of course. It's irritating to meet him again, like this. And she's not really sure why. She, of all people, knows the value in acting...less...than you are -- people completely underestimate you.

She tries her best to blend into the background, while the three men are engaged in a business discussion she finds only mildly interesting. 

She scans the room. She noted the exits the moment they entered the ballroom, but now she gets a chance to get more of a feel for the people in it. They seem to be split pretty evenly between the people who came because they believe in the cause, and the people who came because it was the place to be tonight. 

She spots Lionel and Lex Luthor, and a shiver skitters down her spine. She knows them slightly from her years as Leonard Chase's daughter, and would trust them about as far as she could throw them. They fit into the latter category. She makes a mental note to keep David away from them.

She picks out the security guards in their rented tuxes, and notices only a few people who hold themselves like they could actually take care of themselves in a fight. One of them is Bruce, who is asking her what she does for a living.

She answers with a smooth, "I run a Private Investigation firm," before David can babble out something a little too literal.

"Unusual occupation."

She mentally snorts. Like he's one to talk, just look at his hobbies. "Compared to what?" She almost adds, 'Dressing as a giant bat?' but gets a hold of her tongue before her mouth gets her in trouble.

He doesn't rise to the bait, of course -- he's too smart. Instead he responds with a glib remark and...

A vision hits. Crap.

It takes all of her control not to react. "Excuse me gentlemen, but I need to find the ladies."

"Cordelia?" David's voice shows he's worried. He doesn't know her well enough -- or maybe doesn't have the personal skills -- to pick up on the signs of a vision, but he does know about them, so her sudden abandonment of him would cause concern.

She smiles reassuringly at him, there's no reason both of their nights should be screwed. "I'll be back in a moment." 

Then she makes a beeline for the terrace, she has a call to make.

**

When she next sees him, she's just finished a call from Sam. Dean's a bit banged up -- probable concussion -- but they got there in time to stop a group of vampires from killing a potential whitelighter.

Her shoulders slump in relief, and she rubs her temples.

Bruce startles her by asking, "Headache?"

She blinks at him for a moment, then glances over her shoulder to check on David. "You left David a-"

He cuts her off with an assurance that David is safe with Lucius Fox. 

Crap. Mr Fox was great and all, but if Lionel started bugging David... "Have you seen Luthor lurking around?"

"Elder or Junior?"

"Either."

"They left about 15 minutes ago in high dudgeon with each other. Why? Did you need something?" 

"Yeah," she mutters, "them to stay away from David." Damn, had she really been out here long enought to miss them leaving?

He's saying something, Tony Stark's name catches her attention. 

"-Between the two of them, they'd probably get so involved in their technical discussion that a bomb couldn't separate them."

She can't help but snort. She may not be entirely sure how to distract David from a tech-geek discussion, but all you had to do to distract Tony Stark was flash some leg. "You don't need a bomb. Tony Stark is easy enough to distract." He'd actually hit on her once at a party in LA, just before she'd run into Angel -- she'd turned him down, she hadn't yet reached the desperate state she'd been in at Russel Winters'.

"Sounds like the voice of experience." His tone isn't judgmental, but there is an edge to it she isn't sure she likes, so she just hums, and stands.

Only for her head to start spinning. His arms have locked around her before she has realised that she was off balance. The strong muscle reminds her of Angel, which only makes her want to cry.

"O-K. A little dizzy," she moans, sitting back down and putting her head back between her knees. 

Damn the Powers. Ever since the deal that had made her not-dead, the visions have come with an indicator as to how urgent they were. The more urgent, the more painful. It wasn't anything like it used to be before her demonizing, the visions weren't killing off parts of her brain, but still. The bad ones were, on occasion, enough to make her nauseous for a good hour. And dizzy for 5 mins. This one seemed to have gotten them around the wrong way.

He asks if she needs a doctor, and she waves him off, with a feeble excuse about a migraine. Dear god, when had she become such a lousy liar?

He leaves, and she sits up, then waits for the terrace to stop spinning. Slow deep breaths seem to help.

When he comes back, he holds out a glass of water. She murmers her thanks. 

"You're welcome." She takes a few sips of the drink. "So, do you need anything?"

"No, just...give me a minute." She needs some time to process this. He's not annoying her at the moment. She's not pissed off with him for a reason she can't quite put her her finger on. And that is beginning to bug her. He's a puzzle. "So," she asks, trying to understand, "who are you hiding from?"

He's quiet for so long that she thinks he's not going to answer. "Everyone."

Ah. Right. So right now she would be dealing with Bruce Wayne, just plain Bruce Wayne. Not the Batman, not the Playboy. Hmm. She likes this version of him better, she thinks. He's not so abrasive to her nerves. She tries for humour, just to see how this version of him will react. "Well, you can't hide behind my skirts -- there's no room." David is already using them tonight. 

She's pretty sure that he's caught the inference when he parries, "And here I thought you protected people from the vultures."

"Yes, but you need protection from a different animal."

When he asks about harpies she suppresses a grin. He really shouldn't call the female portion of Gotham high society harpies, however much she may agree with the sentiment. "Can't help you there. Besides, you're a big boy, I would have thought you'd be able to manage them on your own by now."

"A certain level of backup has proved necessary on several occasions," he admits ruefully. 

She can feel laughter gurgling up and does her best to suppress it. It's really not polite to laugh, but still, "I think I would like to see that one day."

"Well, if you're staying in Gotham-" 

Which she is. Minor hellhole that it is, Gotham is now home. 

"-you probably will eventually."

Oh good, something to look forward to.

"Or you could step in yourself, if you felt like putting me in your debt."

Tempting, but, "Aren't you already in my debt?" she asks, mischievously. "I contributed to your continued solvency, after all."

He agrees with a brief smile, and she feels a little warm. Oh... handsome billionaire flirting, and he has more than surface under his surface. 

She stops herself before she gets too swept away by old fantasies. This is a bad idea. Too much attention. Too much possibility of an absolute train wreck resulting. She really should put the kibosh on this before it goes anywhere other than mild flirting. 

They settle into a companionable silence.

Of course she can kibosh little later when she doesn't have to worry about being dizzy or about David, she glances over her shoulder, who is... was with Mr Fox. Oh. Crap.

Instead of Lucius Fox, there's a blonde cosying up to David, and David has a look on his face that tells Cordelia that he's a little spooked, but also trying to figure out whether to bolt, or to ask how much she charges an hour. Cordelia thinks that either would be bad, for different reasons.

Oops. Time to go rescue David.

*****


	5. Five (or Six)

### Five (or Six) 

**_The sixth (fifth) time that he saw her, he was in the bed of a sensualist, and she was asleep beside him._ **

It is very early, the light that filled the room has that tempered quality of combined lamplight and pre-dawn daylight. 

Thers's crisp cotton beneath him, and the softness of mink against his hands.

He turns his head to get a closer look at her, and agony blooms in his temple. He bites back a grunt of pain, closes his eyes and waits for the stabbing sensation to dissipate. When he opens them again he sees her curled awkwardly into a chair beside the bed, a light blanket tangled in her limbs. There are dark violet circles under her eyes, and even in sleep there is a tenseness in her shoulders that speaks of a heavy burden.

What is she doing here? What is he doing here? And where is here, anyway? He sits up, intending to get some answers, only to fall back to the bed with an agonised moan as his ribs complain violently.

Cordelia startles awake, blinking furiously for a few moments, before focusing on him. "Be careful," she warns her voice husky with mis-use, her warning a little late, "I'm pretty sure you've broken at least one rib. Probably cracked a few as well."

As the pain resides, he tries to recall what had happened to make him feel like he'd been run over by a tank. He'd been out in the suit, when... 

He'd been out in the suit.

Cordelia apparently reads his sudden stillness correctly. "Relax. Your secret is safe. None of my crew are here at the moment," she assures him. "The cape is fine, but I had to cut you out of the...body armour, or whatever you call it. The cowl broke when I pulled it off the check for head trauma," she informs him, with an apologetic grimace. Then she brightens. "But I did save the boots, and the gloves. And gauntlets. Oh, and the belt. Mostly."

He studies her for a moment, his mind whirling. She wasn't freaking out.

When he says as much, she snorts, "Pft. Please. I hate to bruise your ego, but you dressing as a bat is not the weirdest thing I've seen."

He thinks about the research he'd done on her, and has to concede the point. She has after all apparently been dead for six months, in 2005. "Where am I?"

She untangles herself from the blanket, uncurls herself from the chair and stretches. "Welcome to the insane asylum," she says, yawning. "Otherwise known as Doyle-Oracle Investigations. Offices are downstairs."

"Doyle-Oracle?"

"Hey," she chided him at his tone. "No making fun of the name. I'll have you know, a good friend had to get me drunk to get me to name it that."

"I would hope so." He considers the room for a moment. "You live here?"

"Yep," she admits, almost cheerfully. "I'd have put you in a guest room, but it was difficult enough getting you up one flight of stairs, let alone two.

"Ah." Yes he could see how his dead weight would have been a problem for her. "Thank you, Cordelia."

She smiles at him slowly, and seems to...shift. It takes him a moment to understand that she's relaxed. Her posture isn't so rigid and her shoulder have lost the tension. It's then that he realises that she had been rather tense during their previous encounters. What is it about 'thank you' that had her deciding that he could be trusted enough for her to relax? 

"You're welcome, Bruce."

There was a muffled thump, followed by the muted sounds of someone descending stairs, and he froze. "I thought you said there was no-one here."

"I said that none of my guys are here," she corrects. "He's yours. I called your place to let Alfred know you wouldn't be home, and he insisted on coming over. I sent him off to bed a few hours ago."

He didn't know whether to be worried about the problems this might cause if anyone noticed both him and Alfred here; or just be awed that she'd been able to successfully mother hen Alfred. He settles for awe for the moment. "How did you-"

Her grin turns smug. "Never underestimate the queen bitch of Sunnydale High."

"The sad truth is, Master Wayne, I was taken in by a pretty face and fluttering eyelashes," Alfred speaks from the doorway, his tone a mixture of relief and dry amusement.

"Pfft. Don't listen to him. I had to threaten bodily harm."

Alfred flashes a quick grin at her, before approaching Bruce. "After she made some rather insulting remarks about my age," he agrees. "'Kick my ass,' was the term she used, if memory serves."

Cordelia grins back at Alfred. "Worked didn't it?" she asks and leaves him to Alfred's care.

"Alfred-" Bruce begins after she has left.

"I believe in this matter, Master Bruce, Miss Doyle... Cordelia can be trusted."

That isn't really what was worrying him. His gut instinct is telling him she wouldn't run off to notify the Gotham Gazette of Batman's true identity. Alfred's assessment only confirms what his own instincts are telling him. 

Alfred helps him up out of bed, and he gingerly stretches out his body, taking stock of injuries, muscles aching, ribs grinding a little despite the tape, stitches pulling in his right shoulder.

No, what is worrying him was the vague feeling of dread that had begun to settle in his stomach when he saw how well Alfred and Cordelia were getting along. 

"Alfred, why is it that I have a bad feeling about this?"

"About what, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks, blandly. Which only confirms Bruce's suspicion that Alfred was up to something.

"You and Cordelia being so... chummy."

"Ah." Alfred begins to strip the bed as Bruce dresses. "Well sir, that may be the result of sleep deprivation."

"Or it could be a suspicion that you two are about to gang up on me."

Alfred grinned. "We are, sir." 

*****

**_The fifth time she saw him, he had just had a wall dropped on him._ **

There's maniacal laughter fading into the distance and the dust of two vampires settling to the concrete.

Not that she had been meaning to catch up with them when they were together of course -- she was fortunate that something had distracted the second vamp long enough for her to get the necessary staking action in.

She manages to shift enough rubble to drag him out. He's in head to toe black, the front of his mask broken, so that he looks like a warped version of the Phantom of the Opera. Damn. If anyone sees it could be a problem. He's unconscious which just makes things harder.

She quickly checks him for obvious injuries, poking at him a few times, but all he does is moan, and remain unconscious. Damn it. She's going to have to drag him. She throws his cape over his head to obscure his identity and man handles him into her beat up van, trying not to think about the possible injuries she's causing in the process. Then she quickly sweeps the area to ensure that nothing incriminating is left behind. She finds his belt in the rubble, and a couple of metal bats on the concrete mixed in with the vampire ash. A weight settles in her stomach as she realises what had distracted that second vampire. 

When she gets home, she leaves him sprawled out on the office reception floor. The boots come off relatively easily, as do the gloves and gauntlets. 

She has to cut him out of the suit with a pair of secateurs. 

She stops his bleeding, and takes stock of his injuries, noting the patchwork of healing bruises. There is bad bruising forming around his ribs, and a slight grinding give on one, when she gently prods. She is going to need help in strapping his ribs, but for the moment she checks his pupil reaction with a torch. They're ok, and his incoherent moaning is at least reassuring her that he hasn't suddenly died.

She cleans and dresses the various cuts, although there is one on his shoulder that's going to need stitches.

Reassured that he will be ok for a few minutes, she heads into her office to get the auxiliary first aid kit. As she grabs the box, she pauses. There would have to be someone at home worried about him, right? She knows that he doesn't have any family to speak of, but wasn't there a caretaker or godfather or something? She turns the computer on. His phone number wasn't listed of course, but that wasn't a problem if you knew what you were doing.

She finds the number quickly, and while making her way back to Bruce, places the call.

"Wayne Manor." The voice has an English accent, unlike Wesley's or Spike's, but it's enough to send a shaft of yearning through her. She represses it ruthlessly. Now is not the time.

"Hi, My name's Cordelia Doyle, I'm calling about Mr Wayne." She isn't sure what to say. What if this person doesn't know about Batman?

"I'm afraid Master Wayne isn't here at the moment, Miss Doyle. Can I take a message?"

"Ah... no. I'm afraid you've misunderstood. I'm calling about Bruce."

"About..." The voice is slightly puzzled and a lot apprehensive. Oh yes. He knew, thank God.

Relief means that it escapes her with her old complete lack of tact; "Yeah, he kinda had a wall dropped on him."

It must have made an impression, because he responds with a startled, "What?"

"Ok, that came out a little wrong. But the upshot is that there is an unconscious billionaire sprawled out on my floor, with at least one broken rib and a concussion, and I kinda need some help. I'm going out on a limb with guessing that calling 911 is out." Ok, so maybe she was freaking out a little, beneath the competent practicality she'd been cultivating.

"Miss Doyle? Where are you?"

She gives him her address.

"I'll be there shortly."

The knock on the door comes just after she has finished putting 10 stitches into Bruce's shoulder. The process wigs her out a little, but she still sends up a brief prayer of thanks to Dr Pierce in Maine, who had made her take his version of Battlefield First Aid 101.

She answers the door to find an older man in slacks, a buttoned down shirt and sweater. He's carrying a suitcase.

"Miss Doyle?" he asks, seeming a little surprised by her.

"Yes?"

"Alfred Pennyworth. We spoke earlier."

She steps back to let him in, but doesn't invite him. Habits born of the Hellmouth stuck with you. 

When Alfred sees Bruce he pales a little. "Do you have any idea who did this?" he asks as he checks the younger man over.

"No, I didn't see. I was a little occupied at the time, " she admits, guilt spearing through her. "I did hear maniacal laughter, but that's a trait too generally evil for me to make an id off of it."

He smiles slightly, then helps her to tape Bruce's ribs. Then together they get Bruce up the first flight of stairs, before giving up and putting him in her bed. 

She leaves him to get Bruce into something clean, and goes to the kitchen to turn the coffee machine on. She rather suspects that she's going to need caffeine to get through tonight.

She's collapsed at the table and rubbing her eyes when Alfred reappears.

"You do very good work Miss Doyle."

"Huh?" The adrenalin rush had faded about five minutes ago, and her mind isn't really processing things well.

"Your first aid skills," he clarifies. "They're very good."

"I've had a lot of practice."

"Yes, I rather expect you have," he says, eyeing her thoughtfully. "I admit that I'm not fully conversant with the supernatural, Miss Doyle-"

"Cordelia, please. The Miss Doyle thing is a bit formal for two in the morning, Mr Pennyworth."

"-Cordelia, then. I'm Alfred."

She nods in acknowledgment.

"As I was saying, despite not being fully conversant with the supernatural, I have kept up with old friends. If you don't mind me asking, aren't you supposed to be dead?"

She freezes. Damn it, he knew. 

Which meant that obviously Bruce has investigated her. And managed to find out who she really is.

This is the reason she'd had to take money from Spike. She'd been declared dead, having that reversed would cause all kinds of headaches. It had been easier to just change her identity, but apparently the new identity wasn't a good as Dean's friend had bragged.

Apparently oblivious to her reaction, Alfred continued. "I would have thought that the IWC would have been able to help with getting your own identity back, Miss Chase."

Yeah, Spike had said the same thing. "Only if I wanted to go to the IWC," she mutters once her head stops spinning. He wasn't being nasty or difficult, just...neutral. Almost like he's waiting to see how she's going to react. 

"Do you have a problem with them?" he asks carefully.

Oh, it's a test of some kind. Great. "With what they do? Not so much. More a personality conflict," she admits.

"It would have made things easier."

"At the time, maybe. Not so much in general."

Alfred studies her for a minute and Cordelia does her best not to squirm or look away. There is something penetrating about the gaze. Almost like he can see what she's hiding from. Herself mostly, is the answer, but she's not about to tell him that. Telling anyone would give too much away, and she's barely hanging on as it is.

"You'll have to face them eventually," he tells her, finally. "Reports of a woman slaying vampires in Gotham is rather likely to attract their attention."

"I know." She knows that. She's always known that the moment she settles in a city the odds of running into a scooby, or a representative of the IWC, increase daily.

It's not that she is trying to avoid them completely and forever -- she wouldn't have done the favour for Spike with tracking down Larrissa if that had been the case. The problem is that she's having a hard time moving past old sins. Yet she still needs to make a difference, because it's who she is now. 

But she can't do that with the IWC. She can't go back and be the person they'd expect. 

She's still trying to feel comfortable in her own skin. In a way, Gotham was her atonement. The last few years she'd spent moving around a lot, and she'd gotten a look at the bigger picture. The IWC's focus is on the slayers, which is great -- but what about all the other hunters? 

Not to mention the other problems. 

If she contacted them, they would probably come in and try to take over. 

And she doesn't think that being a part of the IWC would be the best thing for Doyle-Oracle or the hunters either. Those who came to her would need a neutral place. Many of them would have been dealing with endless shades of grey too long to be able to stomach the black and white viewpoint the scoobies always seem to take when it came right down to it. That viewpoint doesn't really work so well off a Hellmouth. 

And it really wouldn't work in Gotham -- there are too many small communities of peaceful demons. Most of the slaying required, is of vampires and the occasional rogue. 

Then there was Angel. She doesn't think that she's strong enough yet to be able to say no if they bring Angel into it. Which would void her agreement with the Powers, and she'd be back to being six feet under.

She would have to deal with them. And Angel. But it would be on her terms, and on her turf.

When she was ready.

And she wasn't ready. Not yet.

Alfred seems satisfied by her acknowledgement. "I really must thank you for helping out Master Wayne."

"He saved my ass. It's the least I could do."

"You could have left him. Or called 911," he pointed out. The fact that doing so very well could have left Bruce dead or battling a barrage of media for weeks, went unsaid.

"No. I couldn't."

Alfred actually smiles, and relaxes a little. He pours himself a cup of coffee. "You know something Miss...Cordelia? I think life is about to become a little more interesting."

Oh. Great. Just what she needs. More interesting. As if she didn't already have enough.

*****


	6. Interesting Times

### Interesting Times

**_They say: May you live in interesting times._ **

"What's your opinion of Jim Gordon?"

They're on the roof of Cordelia's offices. He's in the suit, and Cordelia hugs a wrap tight around her shoulders to ward off the penetrating chill of Gotham's winter. This has become a regular ritual.

He considers the question for a moment. "He's a good man. A good cop," he tells her. "Why do you ask?"

"He came to see me today."

"Problems?"

"For me? No." He saw her shiver. "A mutual friend from New York gave him my address. Someone has been attacking the Brachen community in the Narrows."

He considers that for a moment, mildly surprised that Gordon knows about demons. But then, the man had been a beat cop for 7 years, and wasn't blind or stupid. "A demon?"

"Not as far as I've been able to find out," she says, shaking her head. "The people I've found, who are willing to talk, all described a human. A sick and twisted human, but human never the less."

"I'll look into it. Might be one of the Arkham escapees we haven't caught yet."

"Be careful. Whoever it is, he's smart, strong and sadistic." She advises him of the description she's elicted from witnesses. "Let me know when you find him."

He nods. "When do you patrol next?" he asks. 

She cocks her head at him, curious. "A general sweep? Or do you have something specific in mind?" A general sweep she does a couple of nights a week, unless something specific comes up. When it does she'll wait until she has some kind of backup, unless it's urgent. It's her concession to Alfred nagging and him asking -- though she would call it nagging -- her to be careful.

"Something specific, so backup...?" 

"Spike should have recovered from his hangover and jet lag by tomorrow night. Any place in particular you'd like me to investigate?"

"South Hinkley. I think that Savatore DiMarco may be using vampires as thugs."

She smirks a little. "Not recovered enough to try it yourself?" 

He winced at the reminder. He'd tried battling a vampire a little over a week after having the wall dropped on him, and only gotten another broken rib for his trouble. 

"I know when to leave a job to the professionals." Meaning that his ribs weren't healed enough to want to try it again until she'd shown him the best way of taking a vampire out. More injuries would only hamper his effectiveness as Batman amongst the criminal underworld. That and Cordelia refused to train him until the ribs were fully healed. The woman wasn't above using bribery and his own intelligence against him. Not that he couldn't figure it out, but still. Vampires were her turf.

Her smirk widened into a grin as he muttered, "You're as bad as Alfred."

"Oh, I'm much worse than Alfred," she advised, her grin turning smug. "I have much more experience with stubborn, nocturnal men."

"Don't be too pleased with yourself," he advised. "You can only push me as far as I let you."

"Mm-hmm." She knows it too. Her skill lies in getting him to allow her to push him further than he'd normally allow. He let's her because he's come to realize that she thrives when she's got someone to care for. She manages Alfred as well, which is entertaining.

He turns to leave, to start his own patrols, but her voice stops him.

"Happy hunting, Bruce."

"You too, Cordelia." Then he steps off the building and into the night.

***  
End


End file.
